Here I am, your friendly neighbourhood bankingcommish writer… I’m listening to Queen’s greatest hits at the moment, and life couldn’t be better. Do yourselves a favour and download the track, ‘Hammer to Fall’. That shit will change your fucking life! Freddie Mercury is like God, except he’s real, which makes him far more impressive!

To be honest, I’ve left this one quite late, because I’ve been pondering a very important question. It’s one that has left a number of my mates in two minds and I think it deserves being asked to a wider audience… Here goes…

Would you rather fight one hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?

Personally, I’d take the 100 duck-sized horses; can you imagine how fucking terrifying it would be running away from a gigantic horse-sized duck? Its quacks would be deafening & it’s big, fleshy beak would be a creepy accident waiting to happen.

Separately, it would seem that word of my ability to quickly dispatch a bottle of red has gotten out, and now people are lining up expecting me to wander around swigging out of an open bottle like I’m sipping nonchalantly on a stubbie of beer. It’s fucking dangerous, let me tell you. (I’m doing it right now, though…) Tonight I’m swigging merrily away on an ‘Annie’s Lane’ Shiraz from 2011. It tastes the same as all of the other tipples I’ve molested in the last couple of months, but that isn’t stopping me from letting it take me for a wander down piss-shack lane like the good old-fashioned wino that I’m clearly becoming. Tastes like crushed grapes… mmmm!

For the longest of times I’ve been a vocal critic of Sunday sessions; to me, there’s nothing worse than a bunch of oiled-up, jacked-up fucktards with skin-tight Travisty t-shirts contemplating whether or not to shift copious amounts of pre-mixed Bundaberg rum cans while their wives look on (those cunts always get married really fucking early in life)… However, in the last couple of months I’ve really come around to the idea of shifting bulk Sunday tins (although I’d happily sentence anyone who wears a Travisty t-shirt to death if they come within 50 metres of me).

Seriously though, drinking beer on a Sunday is nothing short of a biblical experience; the knowledge that soon you’ll be confined to your workplace structures (I fucking hate the term structures) makes getting pissed on this day all the more daring & enjoyable. Today, I sat in the afternoon sun in Carlton getting righteously pissed while a bunch of strangers watched on, laughing merrily at my misfortunes as the December sunlight took to my pallid skin. Glorious!

I love Freddie Mercury…

/end communication

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